Hero in the Highlands (24 page)

If he continued to find reasons to stay, though, the entire equation changed. The question of her loyalties, of her … affections would cause all kinds of additional trouble. Not for him, because he would always have the next horizon on his mind, but for her, because she would never be going anywhere.

“I dunnae want to answer yer questions,” she finally whispered back, when she realized she'd been silent for too long. “They always mean trouble fer me.”

“I could say the same about you. I'd be happy not to talk, if you'd excuse yourself and join me somewhere more private. I'm not finished with you, Fiona.”

Oh, she should just tell him that that had been a mistake, and that they were lucky Dunncraigh's arrival had interrupted them when it had. But the sensations and the memory were too fresh, and for God's sake she'd been hard-pressed not to stare at the front of his close-fitting white breeches all night. But it hadn't been a mistake. It had been a risk, and one she remained willing to take. Once they had the house to themselves again, that was. “The Duke of Dunncraigh and his men are staying here, Gabriel. Ye ken they'd string ye up by yer bollocks if they caught ye with me.”

He cleared his throat, obviously finding the threat amusing. “They could try,” he returned.

“Fiona, ye're quiet this evening.”

She just managed to keep from jumping as Artur Maxwell dropped onto the couch beside her. “Am I? I'll admit, I didnae wake this morning with the thought that the Duke of Dunncraigh would come calling.”

Where most of the Maxwell's inner circle wore more traditional Highlands garb, the duke's nephew had always preferred English attire. It made him stand out, she supposed, just as the crimson coat Gabriel wore set him apart from the crowd. The difference, though, lay in the why: the gentleman's clothes were a costume for Artur, a way to gain attention. For Gabriel, they were simply the outer skin of who he was. And who she'd begun to wish he wasn't.

“We do make a stir, I suppose,” Artur returned with a charming grin. He glanced over his shoulder. She followed suit, expecting to find Gabriel looming, but he'd strolled over to converse with the other duke in the room. “Uncle Domhnull wanted to surprise the Sassenach,” he went on. “We didnae want to have to listen to any pretty speeches aboot the English saving Highlanders from ourselves.”

“I dunnae think Lattimer knows any pretty speeches.” If he did, he'd never attempted to regale her with one. No, he clearly preferred directness with a touch of sarcasm. Veiled threats and pretty words hiding lies—those were tricks for other men.

Light green eyes assessed her bosom. “And how are ye faring here, with a murdering brute fer a master?”

Answering that question today was far more complicated than it would have been a week ago. She didn't want to seem flippant, because evidently Dunncraigh had had a say in allowing her to take on Kieran's job. On the other hand, too much dedication, too much praise for her new employer, and she'd be seen as a traitor to her clan. Fiona sighed. All this because she loved what she did and wanted to continue doing it.

“He worries aboot the missing sheep, and I see to everything else. Nae much different from before we even knew he existed, if a mite louder.”

Artur chuckled. “Lattimer doesnae mean to stay, I hear, so ye've nae much longer to listen to him.” He glanced toward the ceiling. “It's a shame the way this place has been falling to rubble. Hopefully its fortune—and yers—will alter soon.”

She smiled. “It willnae, according to the curse. I dunnae think Lattimer's likely to wake up as a Highlander.”

Brushing his fingers along her forearm, Artur stood again. “Aye, but he
is
the last of his line.”

A sudden shiver ran up her spine. “But fer his younger sister, aye,” she blurted, not certain what had made her want to be certain everyone knew that Gabriel was not entirely alone in the world, but convinced it was vital that she do so.

“A sister? Well. I suppose even the devil had parents.”

As accustomed as she was to danger in her everyday life, for a moment Fiona couldn't help wondering if she hadn't just saved Gabriel Forrester's life. If so, she didn't feel even an ounce of regret. Sassenach or not, he was trying to help. And that was more than any of the other men in this room had attempted.

The drinking and sly insults continued until past midnight. As the clock in the foyer began chiming the quarter hour, Fiona set aside her teacup and stood. “If Yer Graces have nae objection, I'm off to bed. We've a count of the sheep to make at sunrise.”

Gabriel was the only one who even acknowledged her, giving her a brief nod from where he stood between Dunncraigh and Sergeant Kelgrove. She wouldn't want to be Kelgrove tonight, a southern commoner caught between an English and a Scots duke. Of course she didn't precisely envy her own situation tonight, either.

The hallway outside the sitting room had a chill to it, and she took a deep, grateful breath at the absence of both the heat and the tension. Immediately, though, the noise of more conversation hit her. Far too many servants milled up and down the hallway and spilled into the library and the billiards room where a handful of the Maxwell's men had retreated to play.

She caught the arm of a second footman as he walked by. “Lochie, Fleming's likely to be caught up till daybreak. I want ye and four others walking the floors all night. Make shifts if ye want, but five of ye are to be awake and alert at all times.”

He tugged on his forelock. “I'll see to it. Are ye expecting trouble, Miss Fiona?”

“It does seem like it'd be a good time fer some,” she returned, and left the noise behind to ascend the stairs to the third floor and the long hallways of bedchambers. The storage room next to where Gabriel slept remained locked, so at least no one would be trying to frighten him into leaving tonight. Though knowing him, he might welcome a few ghosties after the deadly and dull drama of the evening.

She stepped inside her own bedchamber and closed the door behind her, then leaned back against the old, polished wood. She knew MacKittrick was slowly failing, but she only felt it when her uncle and others were present to point out the old castle's flaws and cracks. For God's sake, at least she kept it running—and from losing money. That would have brought the London solicitors north to pound at the front door faster than anything else.

Making a profit would be easier if she didn't have so many employees to pay, but this was the only opportunity most of them would ever have to earn an honest income. Without that, the property would likely be missing far more than three hundred sheep and a few cattle. And it wasn't only about keeping thievery to a minimum; these people were her kin and her clan, and she would keep them safe and fed and with a roof over their heads even if the lairds were too occupied with arguing over who had the responsibility and the ownership of the place to do anything else.

The small fire in her hearth had dropped to nearly nothing, and she knelt down in front of it to add another log and stir the embers back to life. Immediately the room brightened and warmed, and she stood with a sigh. The men downstairs could come and make their proclamations and puff out their chests and then leave again. She remained. She was the one who'd put her blood and sweat and dreams into the old castle, and whoever claimed ownership today or tomorrow or the next day, she knew one thing deep in her soul—this place, these people, they belonged to her. And she belonged to them.

“When you stand in front of the fire like that,” the low, precise, English voice came, “I can see the silhouette of your legs.”

Fiona turned around as Gabriel silently closed the door behind him. “A gentleman firstly wouldnae be looking at my legs, and secondly wouldnae comment aboot them.” Asking why he was there wouldn't serve any purpose; she knew the answer already. Goose bumps lifted on her arms.

“Is this gentleman of whom we're speaking blind, by any chance?” As he spoke he began unbuttoning his red coat.

“I didnae say ye were invited in here,” she stated, mostly because that sounded like something she should be saying.

“Then tell me to leave.” His fingers paused their descent down his chest.

Fiona regarded him for a moment. A handful of years ago a lass who found an English soldier in her bedchamber had exceedingly good cause to be alarmed. Even speaking to a soldier would have meant trouble for her and for her family. In other circumstances that likely still held true—but he wasn't just any soldier, and she supposed she wasn't just any lass. Not tonight, anyway. “I reckon ye can stay fer a time,” she said aloud.

“It'll be more than a time,” he returned with a grin that heated her all the way to her bones.

Oh, this was going to be very, very wicked.

 

Chapter Eleven

Gabriel hooked a finger into the low neckline of Fiona's gown and yanked her forward, lowering his face over hers and taking her mouth in a whisky-tasting kiss. Digging her fingertips into his shoulders, she lifted along his body to deepen the embrace. Whatever the devil about him it was that felt so intoxicating, she couldn't get enough. No damned interruptions this time, or someone was getting punched in the nose.

“Help me with my boots,” he murmured, letting her go as he pulled his shirt off over his head.

This time she wasn't going to waste time arguing over who removed which piece of clothing for whom. Sinking onto her knees, she gripped one heel and pulled as he lifted his foot. Once the other one came free, she shifted her attention to his breeches. As she began unfastening them, his fingers dropped to her hair, pulling pins free and casting them aside.

Tiny shivers raced along her scalp and down her spine at his touch. It required all her concentration to open the last button, and then she took his trousers by the waist and drew them down. His very impressive cock made the degree of his lust unmistakable, and she closed her hand around it. When she deliberately ran her tongue from base to tip, his entire body jumped.

With a low, indecipherable curse he took her by the arms and lifted her to her feet again. “You are not some camp whore,” he murmured, his voice very controlled and still ragged at the edges. “And I am not going to come in your hand like some untried schoolboy.”

He kissed her again, openmouthed. Fiona ran her hands down his bare back, smooth skin with hard, toned muscle just beneath, crossed here and there by the different-textured scars with which war had decorated him. With sure fingers that said he'd done this sort of thing before, Gabriel untied the ribbon that ran beneath her breasts and then undid the single button at the nape of her neck.

“Arms up,” he commanded, teasing at her mouth again.

She complied. “I'm nae surrendering, ye ken.”

His laugh reverberated against her own ribs. “Just as well. I'm not ready to stop my advance yet.”

He sank down in front of her, gathering the blue of her skirts in his hands and standing as he lifted, until the gown slipped over her head and she stood naked before him. Gabriel kicked off his breeches and lifted her into his arms.

Fiona squeaked and flung her arms around his shoulders as her feet left the floor. She was a fairly slender woman, and he a tall man, but even so he didn't seem to feel her weight. That in itself sent her heart speeding, and heat between her thighs.

Without ceremony Gabriel dumped her onto the middle of her bed, then climbed up after her. His knees on either side of her hips and his palms above her shoulders, he leaned down to take her mouth again. “I like your bed,” he stated unexpectedly, lifting his head and experimentally bouncing on all fours.

An exasperated laugh burst from her chest. “Ye like my
bed
?” she repeated, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him down for another kiss. Hot and shivery delight twirled through her, beginning at every place they touched skin to skin.

“Mine's too soft. We'd have sunk out of sight by now.”

She remembered the maids talking about the pile of blankets he'd made on the floor, and she knew he'd had a camp cot put into his bedchamber. Was simple luxury that foreign to him? “If ye knew how many geese gave their feathers fer that mattress, ye'd nae be complaining.”

“It's too soft,” he repeated, sliding lower to take one of her breasts in his mouth. “Yours is plump but firm. Much better.”

Fiona tilted her chin up, moaning. “I'm nae a damned mattress.”

He sucked, flicking her nipple with his tongue and then turning his attention to the other one. “I was talking about your bed, not you,” he returned, his voice muffled and tickling against her skin. “I'm looking forward to sinking into you.” Shifting his weight onto one arm, he trailed his free hand down to part her nether lips and slip inside. “Like this.”

Well, she could play this game, too. She liked this game. Releasing his shoulders, Fiona stroked a hand down his hard, muscled abdomen and curled her fingers around him again. “With this?”

“Yes,” he hissed, half closing his eyes.

Seeing his reaction to her touch felt heady. Fiona tightened her grip just a little, and he jumped again. “Then what are ye waiting for?” she whispered, sliding down the bed to meet his face and nibbling on his lip.

He drew in a hard breath between his teeth. “Put this on me. Now.”

When he pushed a French condom against her hand she would have teased him again, but the predatory glint in his eyes stopped her. He seemed to be a man who'd been pushed just about as far as he could go. Swiftly she pulled the goat bladder over his girth, tying it around the base and glad she'd done enough embroidery as a lass to be able to make a bow. This man wanted her. Badly. And she briefly wondered how long it had been since he'd had a woman. That same part of her wanted to make him forget any other lass he'd ever bedded and only remember her. “Done,” she managed shakily.